Junie’s Sun-Sneak Score — By the warm canyon wash, Junie dragged a twig through dusty sand and made the first rule: if a shadow touched your rock, you had to hop to the next one without giggling. Read the full story →
By the warm canyon wash, Junie dragged a twig through dusty sand and made the first rule: if a shadow touched your rock, you had to hop to the next one without giggling. The big agave threw skinny, spear-shaped shadows everywhere, perfect for her new game. Pebbles clicked under her sneakers. A cactus wren chattered from a thorny perch like it was keeping score.
“Sun-sneak!” Junie whispered, and leaped from flat stone to flat stone. The sun slid lower, the cliffs turned orange, and the agave’s shadows stretched so far they almost tickled the little cacti. Junie added bonus points for landing inside a leaf-shadow triangle. She was winning against absolutely nobody, which felt suspiciously easy.
Then a striped lizard zipped across the sand, stopped inside a triangle, and bobbed twice. A beetle marched to the next shadow. Even the wren hopped down, scratched one line in the dust, and chirped, “Cheat!” Junie laughed so hard the canyon seemed to laugh back. Next time you spot those long agave shadows, check the stones carefully—somebody may still be keeping Sun-Sneak score.
